


The Head and the Heart

by Anonymississippi



Category: Pitch Perfect (Movies)
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Multi, Two-Shot, turned character realizes why other character follows her every order, turned friendship piece
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-12
Updated: 2015-06-15
Packaged: 2018-04-04 02:13:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4122226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anonymississippi/pseuds/Anonymississippi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are many details to tie-up after international competitions. Equipment reviews, travel plans, press interviews, checking in with the publicist, calming the sponsors. Kommissar (ever the professional) wants to get it done, but Pieter's too busy sulking over a loss.</p><p>Kommissar thinks about her best friend, and Pieter realizes that second best is perhaps not so bad after all. An adventure at the Danish hotel that leads to character-developing shenanigans (here's hoping) in the hotel pool.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Do It Over and Over and Over Again

**Author's Note:**

> Let's just assume that Pieter and Kommissar are conversing in German, ja?

As soon as the junior-most bumbling one hit the final note, Kommissar knew DSM was done for. The judges of these competitions had been leaning toward the simpering, sentimental, utterly trite renditions of pop ballads in many of the preliminary competitions. This is why she never should have left the conservatory… so many of these reality shows and admission-charged competitions play upon an audience’s likes and dislikes, not actual talent. And, as was hers and Pieter’s mentality (the conservatory’s, really; it was indoctrination that at some point she’d claimed as personal philosophy), they would not compromise technique just to deliver a crowd-pleasing performance. She was of the mind that one should not belittle her audience: performances can be both technically impeccable as well as emotionally evocative.

Until now, she had not worried for their position against such hackneyed routines; however, even the mind-blowing Fall Out Boy/Luda mash-up she and Pieter had honed to perfection could not (unfathomably) overcome the exceedingly saccharine display of their cheeky American rivals, the Barden Bellas. She’d seen it in the faces of the crowd, bobbing along mindlessly with those ridiculous lights, like deer mesmerized before a lorry smacked them dead.

Whatever happened to respect for spectacle? For professionalism? What was this sudden desire to be included, to be acknowledged? This… new mentality of a self-inserted generation? They were professional performers for a reason; let the others sit back, relax, and revel in the on-stage glory.

All of these thoughts and more harassed Kommissar’s snapping synapses as she tromped back to the dressing room, where the lower ranks of DSM had congregated. She would need to deliver her usual speech, and yet… this time she would likely have to couch it with something akin to humility.

It was a trait with which she was unfamiliar, primarily because she had never needed humility before. Acquiring top marks in her juries consistently, the lead in every musical, jumping ranks and titles to become the youngest leader in DSM history, never failing, always, always winning… could be as detrimental as never rising to one’s true potential. To put it simply, she had never learned how to lose.

It would certainly be an experience.

“DSM!” she barked, her members snapping to attention before her.

“JA!”

Their designated dressing/prep tent was already clean, the members having packed their black competition bags and stacked them with their respective identifications tags near the entrance of the prep area. DSM sat in a circle of fold-out chairs split into their SATB sections, awaiting further instructions.

Utilitarian and precise.

A well-oiled Das Sound Machine.

They regarded Kommissar with fierce, eager eyes, assuming (as well they should) that their performance had, indeed, won them an international competition. For so many, winning this competition was old hat. For the few new members of the group, an international success coupled with an American tour would be the reward for their year of grueling, demanding production work. After all, DSM was not just a performance group; theirs was a lifestyle. There were whisperings over the past few months of the group being selected as the German representatives to Eurovision; being tapped to perform for the next opening ceremony should Berlin ever win an Olympic host bid again; maybe even signing with a record label in London; their sponsors were innumerable; domestic entertainment deals, countless. Both Kommissar and Pieter had been in three commercials individually; Kommissar had lost count of the number of German sound equipment companies, dance studios, and fashion houses that the group had done promotional spots for. The infamy did occasionally send her head spinning.

Domestic revenue, pouring in from outside sources.

International acclaim, due to rigid professionalism.

They did not lose.

Except… maybe when they did.

Kommissar strode through the small opening in the circle of chairs in the prep tent, her group members attentive, on pins and needles, backs straight as lighting rods.

“Another fine performance, to mark the accomplishments of DSM!” she smirked, tilting her chin as a chortling chorus of “Jas!” followed. “Tonight is a…” she hesitated to say _victory_ , as it was not yet assured. “… achievement for us all. Fall in line, DSM; we will adjourn to the stage and listen to the results of the competition.”

The sopranos stood, followed by the mezzos, the altos, the tenors, the baritones, the basses and their three beat boxers. Each member filed by and she regarded them with a respectful nod, a small amount of guilt curdling like spoiled milk in the pit of her stomach.

_They don’t know how vulnerable we are. They don’t know we might not win—_

“That was a deviation from your usual fare,” Pieter spoke gruffly from behind the curtain of their dressing tent.

Kommissar drew back one panel of the white tarp and arched a skeptical brow in his direction. He leaned against the pole of the tent, arms crossed over his mesh-encased chest, toying with the prickly netting at his elbow. His expression, nor did his tone, herald a congratulatory conversation.

“You do tend to drone on like an evil genius when victory is assured,” Pieter noted, intent on the speck of mesh at his elbow.

“What does that tell you, then?” Kommissar led, dropping the curtain with a resigned sort of sigh.

“You do not believe we will win,” Pieter replied, jaw clenched and shoulders tense.

“You do not either, if you were able to come to that conclusion so quickly,” she answered, more accusation than agreement. “I believe it is not that we underestimated our competition, or that we lacked any of the qualities that have made us winners in the past.”

“And yet you still do not have faith in us?” Pieter asked hotly, abandoning the mesh distraction.

Kommissar leveled her stare and whipped past the tent side to glare pointedly at Pieter.

“It is not an issue of faith. I especially do not lack faith in DSM. I should hope you think I believe in the team that I lead,” Kommissar held back a snarl.

She shut her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose, reining in her temper. She wasn’t angry with Pieter. No, not really. And she wasn’t angry with her group, or with herself. It wasn’t even anger that she felt, merely… a gut feeling of general disappointment.

“It is an observation, intuition,” she floundered, desperate to articulate her thoughts calmly. “Foreshadowing a collapse… of a system that I no longer have faith in.”

Pieter delivered a perfunctory nod and cast his eyes straight ahead, unable to meet hers: “You and I have always prided ourselves on being able to anticipate performance trends. On… manipulating the system. We have failed this time, haven’t we?”

And it wasn’t sad, or particularly incensed. There was no passion in his voice, no silliness, no bravado, nothing that made Pieter _Pieter_. Just the stoicism of recognized inferiority that she knew had been drilled into him from an early age. The blank resignation that came with being _second best_.

“We will know soon enough,” Kommissar replied, slipping quietly back to the main stage, the tromp of her boots only slightly less resonant than usual. You would have to really be paying attention (or Pieter) to notice.

 

* * *

 

 

“I expect you all to make a gracious showing at the after party,” Kommissar commanded.

DSM’s expressions were bereft, confused, and in some cases, utterly murderous. The group glared daggers at the gaggle of American women, mosh-pit jumping with a trophy larger than themselves held high in puny arms above their vacuous heads. Kommissar hoped it knocked one of them (she didn’t really care which) unconscious.

“All of you,” Kommissar reiterated harshly, darting quick eyes toward Pieter. “There will be press there. And we do not waver after a loss. We learn, we adapt, and then we better ourselves. Congratulate the winners, and do not make a mockery of yourselves at this party. Should you want to drown your sorrows, return to the minibars in your rooms in private, or find a place that is not swarming with media,” she said, gritting the command through her teeth. “The judges believe the Americans deserve the title, and we should give credit where credit is due. Please have your phones on hand for further instructions concerning travel plans. Our tour resumes within the week. We will reconvene in the lobby of the hotel the day after tomorrow at 1400. Dismissed.”

“DSM!”

“Ja!”

“DSM!”

“Ja!”

“DSM!”

“Ja!”

The members of DSM gathered up their belongings and shuffled out to the parked trams the Worlds organization had provided for transport to and from the competition site and the hotel. Kommissar oversaw the exodus before double-checking each station for any overlooked competition pieces. Standard procedure on her part. The shock of loss lessened as she fell back into familiar post-performance routine.

“And you, Kommissar?” Magda asked, pausing at the tent exit. “Will you be attending the party?”

“It is my job to handle the reporters. The news won’t hit the major presses until the morning, so I shouldn’t be on the phone with the publicist until tomorrow. I will interview with the few web journalists here, and will arrive shortly,” she answered. “I can find my own transport, thank you, Magda.”

“Yes, Kommissar.”

“And Magda?” Kommissar called, stooping to retrieve a discarded water bottle from the floor. She crossed to the recycling bin and shoved it in the slot, nibbling her lip in thought. “Keep an eye on Pieter, won’t you? Until I arrive.”

“Yes, Kommissar.”

 

* * *

 

 

Pieter was missing.

Not _missing_ missing, but not in attendance, that much was sure. Turns out, second place finishers aren’t subjected to nearly the amount of press interviews that the winners are, so Kommissar arrived at the hotel a mere 30 minutes after the first brave souls of her group had hit the ballroom. Of course, by the time she strutted down to the celebration in strappy black heels and a flowy, designer black jumpsuit, the party was in full swing. The Bellas had yet to arrive, in all their heated mess of flight-attendant-vested-glory, but her DSM comrades seemed to be playing nice with the members of the other teams.

Kommissar hit the open bar and threw back a shot of something amber, knowing that if she was to endure the jibing from the heads of other teams, she would need a little liquid cushion. She settled for a double old fashion to hold in hand as she made the rounds, smiling tightly and nodding at all good-natured slights her aca-quaintances threw her way. Sachi of India was the only one to truly border on insult, but his teammates relieved him of his drink and he soon settled into apologetic pleasantries.

She had just finished her second interview with the entertainment reporter from _Die Welt_ when she felt a tap on her shoulder.

“Okay, please don’t laugh at me,” the Tiny Maus from the American team wasn’t looking at her, instead fixated on an unidentifiable object in her miniature hands. “’Cause I bet your laugh sounds like symphonies, and I don’t think I can take that right now.”

“Tiny Maus,” Kommissar said easily, refusing to let her confidence drop. She had still delivered a damn fine performance, no matter what the judges said. “Are you here to collect your congratulations? I suppose it is only fitting. I acknowledge talent when I see it.”

“Really?” the maus, Beca, she recalled, brightened instantly. “I mean, yeah, of course,” Beca blustered, shaking her head in a twitchy fashion Kommissar found immensely entertaining. “We’re talented. And awesome. And it’s not like I came over here to get your autograph, or anything,” Beca rambled, so quickly Kommissar was having slight difficulty keeping up with the younger woman. “Not because you guys are the most talented group I’ve ever seen, or because I can’t decide if you’re automatons or seraphim or like, aliens from the planet Perfection— _ohmygod_ , shut up!” the woman stamped her foot childishly, turning her head to swear under her breath.

“Can I help you with something?” Kommissar finally asked, amiably bemused.

“Just. Sign. The damn. Paper.”

Beca shoved a pen and a small notebook toward her person, that Kommissar (feeling gracious) took, then obliged the young woman with her signature. The harsh, slightly slanted _K_ of her title took up nearly half the page. She got a look at the previous name in the book, and grinned at the little Bella’s opinion of her.

“Snoop Dogg?” Kommissar questioned, sliding the pen behind the Bella’s ear. The girl below her practically _shivered_ under her touch. It was supremely enjoyable, toying with the young woman. “I am in good company, I believe?”

“Yes, we both know you’re flawless, now let me leave with a bit of my dignity in tact—woah, what are you doing?!”

Kommissar had grabbed her by the waist and tilted the younger woman’s chin upward, moved closer with devious intent, so close she could feel the Bella’s rib cage jumping beneath the hand she had wrapped round her torso.

“Congratulating you, kleine maus,” she husked, whispers away from the Bella’s face.

The woman’s eyes were at half-mast, her heartbeat thudding, her lips, trembling, awaiting what Kommissar knew she wanted more than anything—

“Congratulations, then,” Kommissar said closely, intimately, depositing the booklet back into Beca’s hand as she held Beca flush against her body. Kommissar then abruptly released the little Bella, who stumbled back silently, jaw unhinged in unrequited sexual frustration.

Kommissar threw her head back and cackled, because damn, _that was just too easy_.

“Until next time, little Bella,” she said briskly, sweeping into the crowd.

“Hey, Beca, you alright?”

“Where’s your drink, girl?”

“Becs, why do you have your autograph book?”

“Guys, I think she might be catatonic.”

“You think all the lights got to her?”

“Helloooooooo, _earth to Beca_?”

“Maybe if we pour some water on her head—”

“Look you American hussies, it’s not what’s in her head but who’s not in her pants.”

“Fat Amy, what the hell?!?!”

 

* * *

 

 

Kommissar rejoined the members of DSM, who seemed to be having a decent enough time after a loss. Free liquor could do that to people. She finally laid eyes on Magda, standing at a tall table, eyes scanning the crowd. She weaved her way through a throbbing mass of black button-down shirts and little black dresses varying in degrees of scandal.

“Magda, have you seen Pieter?” Kommissar asked.

“He returned to the hotel, and said he was going to change,” Magda answered, placing her drink on the tabletop. The drink was clear, and her eyes were bright and alert. “I have not been able to find him. I do not think he came to the party.”

She looked slightly fearful, brown eyes downcast and posture bordering on a cower.

“I am sorry, Kommissar.”

Kommissar sighed, staring off into the crowd for a moment.

“What are you drinking, Magda?”

“Water.”

“Get some alcohol in that glass, and make an attempt at revelry,” Kommissar instructed. “That’s an order, Magda.”

“Yes, Kommissar, but what about—”

“I’ll see to Pieter,” Kommissar answered, holding a hand up to cut her off. She downed the rest of her drink, then placed the tumbler back on the bar. “You’ve earned yourself a good time. Enjoy it while you can, because I plan to work you guys like hell once we’re back on the road.”

With that mini threat issued, Kommissar turned and exited the ballroom, bypassing lobby stragglers and heading for the second floor. She took the stairs, knowing the elevators would be full of those too inebriated to climb. One corridor, two corridors, and then she passed the alcove that led to the hotel gym, well-outfitted with cardio machines, boxing bags, free weights and weight press machines. She saw a jump-rope discarded near the mats, a towel hanging over one of the treadmills. No television blaring, but the _chink_ of metal on metal signaled the presence of a lone patron.

“You dummkopf,” she said, swiftly striding toward where Pieter was benching an insane amount of weight without a spot. “You wish to injure yourself before we resume our tour?”

“Don’t—” he grunted, and pressed. “Start—” Grunt. Press. “—Kommissar.” Grunt. Press.

“If I split this suit helping you, you are paying for it,” she moved into place behind him, setting her hands at a safe distance to properly spot the bench bar. “And it was a gift from the runway where we performed in Chicago, so know that it is more than you wish to spend.”

Pieter’s expression was tense with concentration, his cheeks bulging and puffing as the blood flushed his face, the weight atop the bench bar almost unbearable.

“Five—” Grunt, press. “More.”

“One. I’m guiding you back,” Kommissar insisted, pulling the bar back into its position atop the resting stand. Pieter allowed it, if only because he didn’t want to be crushed by his own exercise regimen.

Once the bar _shinked_ back into place, Pieter allowed his arms to fall, and pressed his hands over his eyes. Kommissar leaned over the bar to stare down at him, tilting her head in thought. He had indeed changed, though not into his DSM mandated finery. Instead of the traditional sleek slacks and button up in black, he’d opted for his practice gear of black gym shorts, a cotton shirt, a grey typography of _DSM_ emblazoned in the middle of a diamond outline.

Diamonds.

Hardened.

Pure.

Flawless.

They were pristine performers; even the sponsors who paid for their practice outfits had somehow worked that into the DSM aesthetic. Kommissar was suddenly struck by the notion that losing forced consideration of even the most minor details.

She would not call it gratifying.

“You were not prepared for the party?” she asked, rubbing her forehead.

“A celebration hardly seems necessary after a loss,” Pieter lamented. “We are lower than circus folk.”

“I happen to think we are immensely more talented than common circus folk.”

“Have you seen modern circus folk, Kommissar?” he challenged, waving an errant hand above his head. “One needs talent to be able to ride three motorcycles in a sphere of flaming horror.”

Kommissar almost laughed. She settled for a heavy exhale, and a minute shake of the head.

“Pieter, we’ve already discussed having motorcycles on stage. It’s against a number of performance regulations. And you’re not really helping your argument here, raving about the accomplishments of circus people. It only increases our level of achievement.”

Pieter dismissed her, and sat upright on the bench, elbows atop his knees, hand clasped together. “Motorcycles might help us grind those baby bird babblers into the dust from which they emerged.”

“Now, do not misunderstand,” Kommissar began, stooping to retrieve Pieter’s water bottle. Her grip tightened on the plastic as she maneuvered from behind the machine. “I do wish to beat them, which, we technically have, in that absurd little American man’s basement. But grinding them into their most elemental components seems rather extreme. Not to mention, motorbike engines would undoubtedly drown out our vocals.”

“They do not understand the sacrifice that you and I make for performance!” Pieter insisted, hands flailing animatedly. “This is a _club_ to them, Kommissar. A hobby. They will never truly know what it’s like to commit their lives to this.”

“Perhaps not,” Kommissar conceded, regarding a distressed Pieter. “But then again, we are not privy to the personal details of their lives. Who are we to judge, should they ever take their group to professional competitions? I’ve frankly been bored, defeating the same teams, year after year. Do you not find it a bit… exhilarating to finally face a worthy challenge?”

“You cannot be serious. You are… _happy_ that we lost?”

“I am not happy that we lost," Kommissar cut bluntly. "I am not happy that I have to deal with Rudolph all day tomorrow, talking down sponsors from their proverbial cliffs. I’m not happy to read the many headlines, the awful puns about a ‘broken machine’. I’m not looking forward to rebuilding a confidence that was one innate in a squad that is feeling down on itself. I am, however, happy that competition _exists_ ,” she finished sedately, contemplating the space on the floor between her feet. “Being the best means nothing unless you must work to be the best,” she spoke quietly, tasting the words she’d wanted to voice for months… no, years, at this point. “Don’t you see? Now we have something to strive for, Pieter.”

The large man grunted beneath her, and flung himself upwards off the bench. He snatched his water bottle from her hand, and stomped over to retrieve his gym bag.

“Pieter, come now…”

“No, Kommissar!” Pieter insisted, shirking off her touch. “I’m going to let myself be a little frustrated because a team of hapless wunderkinds with penchants for public nudity defeated us in one of the most prestigious a capella competitions in the world. I’m tired of keeping a lid on my composure for you and your teammates!”

“They are _your_ teammates as well, Pieter,” Kommissar argued, tailing Pieter as he trucked across the gym and out the door. The plexiglass on the window of the gym door shuttered in its frame as she slammed it open, hustling to catch up with a stride longer than her own.

"I never said your frustrations weren’t valid. But your intensity is rather excessive.”

“What’s wrong with being a little emotionally unstable sometimes?!” Pieter threw over his shoulder, ducking into the natatorium to head for the men’s showers. “It’s better than that mic you have permanently lodged up your ass.”

“HEY!” Kommissar shouted, her voice ringing an endless echo off the walls of the indoor pool.

Pieter had stopped dead and faced her stony-gaze, a singular vein in his muscular neck throbbing in irate dissatisfaction. Kommissar approached him slowly, as she might an animal backed into a corner. She held a hand in front of her to keep her voice at a measured level in the very empty, yet very echoy swimming space.

“Your behavior borders on the ridiculous,” she accused. “Life is not a performance, Pieter. We must learn to separate those entertainment highs from the lows of reality.”

“And you, _Kommissar_ ,” Pieter threw back, rising to his impressive height above her, “should know that reality needs not be limited to standard operating procedure. You’re allowed to get mad without needing to channel that anger into exercises for your team. Or negotiations with our publicist. You’re allowed disappointments, and frustrations, and God forbid, _happiness_ and silliness and ridiculousness every once in a while. So yes,” he spat, dropping his gym bag at his feet, chucking his towel to the ground like an overlarge toddler. “Being labeled _second best_ angers me. It even stupefies me, having seen the too much lady area of those who defeated us. And I am not going to suppress it, because perhaps I don’t want to live as unhappily as you!”

Kommissar sneered up at him, blue eyes dead and cold. “I am not unhappy with my life.”

“You don’t show much evidence to the contrary.”

“How dare you!”

“Please,” Pieter sniffed incredulously. “You cannot fool me. I know you, L—”

“Don’t!” Kommissar insisted, poking him in his expansive chest.

“You’ve been so wrapped up in diplomacy that you’ve not let yourself revel in your successes, and despair over your losses, Kommissar.” Pieter softened infinitesimally. His voice edged on pity, which Kommissar had never taken from _anyone_. It was maddening, but he continued: “Ever since you were promoted to head DSM, you have sacrificed personal happiness for professionalism. I thought you would adapt, after a year, learn to juggle more than the job. But it’s been so long and… And, I am not sorry for this insubordination, but I’m not apologizing for wanting my best friend to come back.”

“I—! Oh, uhm…” Kommissar stuttered, prepared for an insult, unready for a truth.

She withdrew her accusing finger, but couldn’t stop herself from flattening her hand and placing a shaky palm against Pieter’s chest. His heart was racing, adrenaline and vexation pounding in solid cardiac muscle that she’d always considered too expansive, too susceptible, too… empathetic. He felt so much, and felt it acutely; every wrong was doubly wrong, every high a mountaintop experience. She found the idea of feeling so much to be generally exhausting. Perhaps she had been mired in her stasis, her emotional equilibrium for too long. Ja, it aided in strategy, in doing her job, but if it was truly bleeding into her personal life, especially her life with her best friend… that certainly would not do.

“Have I been cruel, Pieter?” she asked gently, and his face crumbled instantly.

“Would you like the truth, or a friendly response?”

“The truth, of course.”

“You’ve been the perfect leader. Commanding, professional, self-sacrificing and unwavering. But yes. Perhaps not to your teammates, not always purposefully, not collectively. But to me? To yourself? Yes. You have been cruel.”

Kommissar sucked in a breath and nodded, flat palm fisting so she could pound once on his chest. Her hand bounced back off Pieter’s pectoral, and in her mind she flashbacked to a night at the conservatory, back in Düsseldorf, when he’d taken his guitar atop the roof of the dormitory and screamed a wildly off-key rendition of “Wie schön, dass du geboren bis” for her birthday. He’d been quickly apprehended by campus security (and subsequently cited), but not before he’d gotten the chance to pop streamer party favors and chuck a teddy bear down to her on the ground below.

“He’ll keep watch over you while I become gang leader in prison!” Pieter had screamed manically, as campus security cast her curios looks over the edge of the building. “I hear cement walls have wonderful acoustics!”

It had all been very dramatic and silly, but no one had ever really gone to such lengths to embarrass the shit out of her before… or to show how much they cared.

“It was not my intention,” Kommissar replied, lips taut in a thin line. “I am sorry if I have wronged you, Pieter.”

“You wrong me by being overly hard on yourself,” he said, gathering her up in a bear-hug of hulking affection.

Kommissar smirked weakly. “I am, unfortunately, the victim of my sex. If I am too harsh… on others, on myself, then I am bitchy. Too lenient, I am a sentimental weakling. What ever am I to do?” she asked, slipping her arms around his waist.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so thoroughly _hugged_ ; the last time she’d wrapped her arms around someone for something that wasn’t fleeting, or hollow, or fake; the last time she’d engaged in affectionate physicality that didn’t fall under the category of perfunctory social graces.

She’d forgotten how much she missed holding on; being held and holding fast.

“You let me be the sentimental weakling, if you like,” Pieter replied, and she smiled into his shoulder. “I’ll bring DSM snacks and juice boxes and cry over our ballads. Feminine sentimentality. I already wear the eye liner better than you.”

“You wish.”

“And you are not so much bitchy as unflappable,” Pieter continued, patting her head dismissively. “Showing emotion in front of our teammates would only humanize you, missus stern, microphone stick-ass _Kommissar_. It would not weaken you. I know from experience that you can bench press _me_.”

“Well, it is no easy task with those extra biscuits I see you sneak backstage.”

“What?!” Pieter gaped emphatically, slapping a hand to his face and running it over the beginnings of a five o’clock shadow. “That’s it. I’m going back on the protein shakes. No more carbs, except before conditioning sessions. A diet of sandwiches, pushups, and the tears of our foes.”

“Stop it, I know when you’re fishing for compliments,” Kommissar chided, swatting his arm.

“What would you be complimenting?” he led slyly.

“You’re in peak physical condition, Pieter. You and I both know it,” she said, giving his biceps a pressurized squeeze. He flexed against her fingers and her brow jittered up her forehead, because… maybe she _hadn’t_ really noticed how big his arms were, how strong and well-maintained. Pieter had always been _Pieter_ , no matter what he looked like.

“Admit it, you only keep me around for my hot bod and my mash-up skills,” he teased.

“Perhaps,” she continued playfully. “If I’m to be working with you everyday, I’m pleased I have something nice to look at. You're like a watercolor landscape. Or that painting of the goatman.”

He released her from their little hug-turned-hold, and preened under her gaze. He puffed up out his chest, fists on hips, then put on his most charming face, which elicited little more than a chuckle and an eye roll from Kommissar.

_Pieteeeeeeeerrrr…_

“But conversely, now, superman,” Kommissar chided gently, administering a quick little jab to the mammoth man’s side, “a little more diplomacy on your part would mature you. Though I would never wish you to calm so much that you dampen your spirit.”

“Ja,” Pieter answered, letting his arms fall to his sides. “I understand.”

She watched Pieter nod his head above her, holding both his hands up before him. She slapped them both with hers, a little ritual of theirs they performed after intense practices that had carried over from lessons at the Conservatory. They might not always win, but high fives with Pieter, his big, knobby hands holding her own… well, it was satisfying to know there was some constancy in the world.

All seemed relatively stable and pleasant given their loss, until she caught a whiff of Pieter’s underarm, which was situated quite close to her nose given the height difference.

“You smell like the underbelly of a farm animal,” she said.

“It is a light musk,” Pieter argued, as Kommissar attempted to pull away from their handhold.

“It is a rancid stench,” she countered.

She felt his hands clench, saw the predatory shift in his eyes. He tugged her so hard she fell against him, into his open embrace, and he wrapped his arms around her, tight as two thick boa constrictors.

“Oh is it?” Pieter grit against her ear, wrestling against her struggle. “Perhaps I should just wash off with a bit of the chlorine there—”

“Pieter, you wouldn’t!” Kommissar shouted, utterly betrayed and gleeful.

Pieter bodily lifted a thrashing Kommissar, a superior little grin on his face. The edge of the pool loomed closer, blue-green and still as glass, even with a couple hundred pounds of muscular German ambling towards it.

“Don’t you dare, Pieter Kramer!” Kommissar shrieked, wiggling violently. She desperately wanted to loose an elbow and send it flying straight to the man’s temple. Though honestly, she didn’t want to risk messing with Pieter’s head any more than necessary, given his overly eccentric personality. “I will murder you in your sleep! You’ll be running laps until your legs fall off! Vocal exercises until your throat closes up!”

“But I thought you wanted me to smell better, kätzchen?” Pieter stopped at the edge of the pool, bending his knees for evil preparation.

“Not this badly, you bär!”

Pieter feinted a throw and Kommissar yelped, clutching his neck tight enough to choke. If she was going in, he was coming, too.

“I’m going to—you better not—”

“Come now, Kommissar, I’ve never seen you so agitated.”

“Pieter _Augustus_ Kramer—”

“Ouch,” Pieter cringed, hefting Kommissar out over the edge. “Low blow, Kommissar.”

“If you have any intention of procreating in the future,” she threatened, aiming a wayward kick toward his crotch, “I suggest you _release me_ this instant or I’ll show you a low blow!”

“Fine, fine, I’m putting you down,” he said, loosening his vice grip on her. He placed her on the concrete ledge, helped her to get her footing in her heels, then smiled, and proceeded to push her into the pool.


	2. On My Way Back to Where I Started

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're strictly in the BrOTP camp for these two, maybe chapter one is a good stopping point. But I wanted to see if I could write them as something more and still keep them semi-in-character.

_“Fine, fine, I’m putting you down,” he said, loosening his vice grip on her. He placed her on the concrete ledge, helped her to get her footing in her heels, then smiled, and proceeded to push her into the pool._

 

* * *

 

 

Kommissar took a huge gulp of burning water in through her nostrils and came up spluttering, hair flat, mascara probably running like spider legs over her cheeks. She swiped beneath her eyes and slapped her hands against the surface of the water, all to the tune of Pieter’s laughing fit.

“Piss! Piss off you—you bastard!” she yelled, fumbling about in the water to see if she had any chance of salvaging her heels. She tossed them on the side of the pool and waded toward the edge where Pieter was _rolling_ , tears streaming down his face. He looked like an over large rollie-pollie bug, chortling nonsensically, huddled in a little damp ball on the side of the hotel pool. And it was so naturally _Pieter_ that Kommissar could not find it within herself to be entirely put out.

“Have you had your fun?” she asked, pulling her sopping self out to sit on the edge of the pool.

“Oh yes!” Pieter cracked, tickling at the base of her soaked spine.

She swatted his hand away and wrung her hair out, shaking the chlorine water in his face. Kommissar then unbuttoned the clasp behind her neck that held her jumpsuit in place. Thanks to the dolt still spasming behind her, she’d have to make the trek back to her room in naught but her intimates (thank God she’d made sure the set matched tonight); either that, or steal Pieter’s work-out shirt, and endure the fetid stink for four floors of humiliation. She began shirking the ruined garment from her torso, slipping her arms out and working it over her waist, her hips, and then sliding it off of her legs.

“I hope you’re prepared to reimburse me for three thousand American dollars,” Kommissar said, receiving only silence and a sodden _plop_ as she deposited the jumpsuit behind her. The piece cost probably half that amount, but she could always apply the difference towards another ludicrous purchase.

“Pieter?” she called, looking over her shoulder. “Pieter, where did you—oh, fuck.”

“MUSKET BALL!!!!!!!!” Pieter screamed, barreling full speed at her and then _leaping over her head_ , shirtless and psychotic, into the pool. His splash was massive, rippling waves of enormous force _slurping_ against her calves, her feet still dangling precariously in the pool.

“You’re such an idiot,” she yelled, but Pieter had yet to surface. She kicked at his approaching form underwater but he grabbed her ankle, then popped up with a gasp, and a mischievous little twinkle in his slanted eyes.

“Even I know the phrase is ‘canon ball’.”

“Don’t care,” he grinned.

“Don’t you even think—!”

“Too late!” he said, wrapping one hand around her back, another around her neck, and yanking her from the ledge into the most childish, exhilarating, delighted dunk she’d experienced since swimming at her uncle’s lake during her adolescence.

“Pieter!” she sputtered, coming up for air.

“Can’t catch me!”

“I will _end_ you!”

“Come on, kätzchen!”

Kommissar rose to her full height and surface dived after him, employing a perfected freestyle stroke that soon overtook the weaker swimmer. She dug into his shoulders from behind and wrapped her legs around his waist, using her weight to topple him backwards into the shallow end of the pool. He fell, windmilling his arms and slapping against the surface of the water, rising with a laugh and a splash, and the process continued. A swipe of the hand, drops in an eye, one body grappling with another, dunking and chortling and smiling until the waves slapped the sides of the pool in thundering, laughable echoes, and all traces of DSM were washed away, until all that remained were Pieter and—

“Liesel! Liesel, stop! I’m getting a cramp,” Pieter boomed and beamed, and clutched his side, panting from his efforts and endless laughter.

“What was that, _puny_ Pieter? Can no longer hang with the big girls?” Liesel teased, nudging his shoulders.

“I’ll show you _puny_ ,” Pieter challenged, pulling her flush in the shallow end of the water, hands flying to her hips. He lifted her, _dead-weight lifted her_ , out of the water, and held her above him, as if she were nothing more than a rag-doll. The tips of her toes brushed the surface of the water but his arms were so long and his smile was so bright and his grip was so secure, she could wiggle about and he’d still support her, no matter what she did.

“Puny, you said, kätzchen?” Pieter grinned. “I’ve not been _puny Pieter_ since our days at the Conservatory.”

“Fond memories, when you were still a bit taller, but I had the muscle mass,” she flexed her arm á la Rosie the Riveter, chuckling down at him.

“Very fond,” he said lightly, easing her back down to the water.

She smiled, then brought her face up close to his, delivering two quick kisses to both of his damp cheeks. Liesel then ruffled the top of his head, drips of water scattering about them like residue from a rotating sprinkler.

“Danke, bär.”

“Bitte, kätzchen.”

“Hallo?” a pimply young hotel attendant popped his head around the door.

The pair in the pool swiveled to face the bumbling youth, obviously sent to quiet the ruckus coming from the pool area.

“Ja, hallo,” Liesel smiled, swimming toward the ledge nearest the entrance of the pool.

“Yes, uhm, you know the pool closed fifteen minutes ago—”

“Oh! We are sorry,” she continued, slipping easily back into the posture, the demeanor, even the purring lilt of the Kommissar. “We were just looking for an escape from that party, you know.”

Kommissar pressed her hands against the ledge of the pool and hefted herself out, a flood of water streaming off of her barely-covered body. She crossed nonchalantly toward Pieter’s gym bag and stooped to rummage through it, giving the sweating teen an ample view of her bra straps and panty line.

“We are guests of the hotel, I assure you,” she rasped, extracting the key card from Pieter’s bag. “See?”

“J-j-j-ja,” the teen flushed, cheeks as red as the silly bow tie he had knotted incorrectly about his neck.

“We promise not to make so much noise, m’k?” Kommissar led, tapping the shorter teen’s chest with the corner of the key card.

“O-o-o-o-okay,” the teen said, then scuttled out the door of the natatorium, all beet red and shifty eye contact.

Kommissar chuckled to herself, then tossed the key card back toward Pieter’s bag. She took two swift steps, and performed a perfect dive into the shallower end, compensating in angle and velocity for the depth, like the professional she was.

When she surfaced, Pieter looked petulant, brows furrowed, arms crossed over his slick chest.

“What?” she asked.

“Was that entirely necessary?” Pieter asked. “You’ve probably scarred him for life.”

“You did not seem to mind when I was scarring that little Bella and her friends, or the young men from the Philharmonics,” Kommissar rebutted.

“It’s different. They were competition,” Pieter argued. “And you weren’t…” Pieter waved an absent hand at her. “Half-naked and soaking wet, during their verbal beat-downs. You were the Kommissar then.”

“As opposed to now?” Liesel asked, wading nearer to him, rolling her eyes. “He is a child, Pieter.”

“Hah, much worse than that.”

“What is he then?”

“A teenage boy,” Pieter bugged his eyes at her, and extended his hands in a ‘look what you’ve done’ sort of presentation. “You’ll haunt his dreams.”

“Please,” Liesel splashed an arch of water, then swam straight up to him, smirking all the while. She wrapped her arms around the back of Pieter’s neck and pulled him closer, his bare chest a solid column against her torso, his forehead down and brushing hers. She stood in his arms and swayed a bit, wondering at how lightly he placed his hands at her waist. It was almost… _delicate_.

_Huh._

Oh well, better for an ambush.

“He is not the one who I’m currently entertaining, half-naked in a pool,” she waggled her eyebrows, then sneakily tightened her grip on the back of his neck.

Pieter’s expression shifted from mock condescension to seriousness in a nanosecond, his hands tightening, only just, around her waist.

“Liesel, what are you say—”

She tugged him down into a dunk, rolling underneath him in the water as he floundered about, caught off-guard and unawares. She was cackling when she saw him break the surface, gulping pool water, blinking against the river rushing down his face.

“Haha! That’s at least five!” she pointed, poking her tongue out at the man across from her. “I win!”

Pieter swiped a hand over his face, and shook his head from side to side, unclogging his ears. Liesel watched his chin hit his chest, a grim sort of toothless smile playing out over his features. He released a heavy exhale, and nodded once to himself.

“Ja,” he said. “I suppose I’m second best again.”

He ducked under and swam toward the side of the pool. He pulled himself up and sat on the ledge, then placed his elbows back on his knees; he wiped his hands, agitated, uneasy, over the sides of his shorts, the bridge of his nose, the cleft of his chin. “I do not know why I’m surprised. I should be used to it at this point.”

“I hardly think two losses in an evening constitutes a pattern,” Liesel said, swimming to the ledge, maneuvering on her back. She rose up and floated in the pool, relaxed, playful, crinkling her nose up at Pieter.

“Ha, you’ve never been more wrong,” Pieter said, splashing absently with his overlarge feet. She nudged him in the thigh and he desisted. She popped up out of the water and twisted, sitting beside him on the ledge.

“Really?” Liesel said incredulously. “How so?”

“I’ve been losing for…hmm… how long do you think we’ve known each other?” he asked, placing a thoughtful finger at his chin.

“What? I’m unsure… though, perhaps nine, nearly ten years, I suppose,” Liesel supplied, face contorting in confusion. “What does that have to do with—”

“I’d say I’ve been losing for nearly ten years,” Pieter answered, refusing to meet her gaze, the pool apparently far more intriguing than his best friend’s bewilderment.

“I do not understand; you are not a loser,” Liesel supplied, placing a comforting hand on Pieter’s forearm. “It’s not a language we speak, remember?”

“I think I’ve been too afraid of losing to even let myself compete.”

“Really, Pieter,” Liesel scoffed. “You’re making no sense.”

“Ja,” he mumbled, running a hand over his head, still shirking eye contact. “I am not.”

“Is something wrong? Something with DSM?” she asked again, her posture straightening almost habitually at the mention of her group. Liesel and the Kommissar were one in the same, and yet… not quite the same at all.

“Do not be angry with me,” Pieter said, placing his overlarge hand atop hers.

“Why would I be angry with you?”

“I’m about to break a rule that our sponsors set in place two years ago.”

“We have most of the copyright law outlined in our contracts,” Liesel explained. “It should not be an issue for the album if you want to rearrange covers—”

“Liesel.”

“Ja?”

“Hush,” Pieter said, closing the distance between them to press his lips against hers.

It was very brief, very nervous, hesitant and unsure. His lips barely moved over hers, his hold on her arm so loose she could push him away in an instant. It was nothing like her friend, her _best friend Pieter_ , all possessive protection and wide, passionate heart. This was tentative, a chance, not an assurance, an opportunity for her to break away at any moment.

Which she did.

And stared, eyes darting across every inch of his anxious face.

Because _Pieter had just kissed her_.

And not just a brief peck. Nothing affectionate like the two quick kisses she’d delivered earlier in the evening. Not like any of the kisses they’d exchanged when meeting up after holidays, or after long vacations, or when they went to visit each other’s family homes. They’d shared those kisses, a drunken exchange of tongue-in-opposite-person’s cheek, but had shrugged it off as nothing, as _friends_ , because they’ve been so close for so long… _oh no_.

_He’s been losing for ten years._

Holy—shit.

“Pieter,” she knew her eyes were wide, her breaths coming in hitched little puffs of surprise, her brain, buzzing along, putting pieces together, connecting flashbacks to half-confessions and late nights in the studio and a few flings they’d both had that fizzled, because of _work_ , she insisted, always coming back to Pieter because he was her friend, he was her partner, her comic relief, her heart— _no_. No, no, no, no, no, no.

Not… not _her_ heart.

The heart of DSM. That’s what she meant.

She was the head, he the heart. How they’d been from day one. How they functioned, how they operated, how they worked— _so well together_ —to lead their team to an international title three years running; to get sponsors that made them rich; to become the first a capella group in Europe to sign a record deal with a major studio, and—and—holy shit.

_They actually worked really well together._

“I’m sorry,” he said, placing the hand she’d put on his forearm back in her own lap. He withdrew completely and put inches between his body and hers, little rivulets of pool water trickling between them. It might as well have been a widening gulf, the Rhine, flowing mercilessly and splitting them in two before they’d even had the chance to come together.

“I just… I couldn’t help it.” He puffed his cheeks out in an exhale like a blowfish, then slapped his hands on his kneecaps. “Just don’t use too much of it against me, okay?” he grinned a little, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

It wasn’t Pieter, it wasn’t _her_ Pieter.

He shifted to stand, but she flung a hand out to stop him.

“Pieter,” she said, focus darting from her hand on his forearm to his hurt face. “Ten… ten years?”

Pieter shrugged and something like a choked gurgle came out of his throat. “Not the whole… there were sometimes I— I mean… ja, I guess,” he admitted hastily.

She studied his face, the strong jaw, the beady, vulnerable eyes, and was just so overwhelmed that she'd not _seen it_ before.

“You didn’t kiss me like you’d been waiting ten years to do so,” she said, studying her hand on his arm. His beautiful, talented, silly long limb. That arm had held microphones and sheet music and guitars and poses with her for almost a decade. That had supported _every decision she’d ever made._

“I didn’t want to… to force anything on you,” he answered. “You’re my best friend first, Liesel.”

“You’re a member of DSM, are you not?” she barked, focus drawn toward his thin lips. She grabbed his arm and placed it around her waist, moved closer so that he would not misunderstand her intention.

“Ja,” he replied, and she felt the knobby fingers flex along her side, the tips pressing into her back, forcing her spine to arch into him.

_Oh… good boy._

“Then I expect professionalism in every regard,” she said, moving her face even closer to his. “Kiss me like you mean it, Pieter.”

And if there was one thing Pieter was good at, it was taking instructions from the Kommissar.

She couldn’t say it was the best kiss she’d ever received; their body positions were a bit awkward, and the concrete ledge surrounding the pool was turning her butt cold and numb. She’d just lost the world championships, and relationships between members (and definitely the _leaders_ ) of heavily sponsored performance groups were looked so far down upon a telescope would be necessary to find an exception. These thoughts briefly assaulted her, because she was the brains, she always had been; but the sensation of Pieter tugging her close and kissing her thoroughly helped with putting those thoughts on the backburner. For once, she’d rather focus on the tongue in her mouth and not the fabled microphone up her ass. Being hugged and kissed and maybe even worshiped a little (not because she was intimidating, or talented, or slightly scary) for being _Liesel_ wasn’t a feeling she was particularly used to. It… made her stomach do flippy things, despite the fact that DSM had put their ultimate ab workout on hold since they’d gotten to Denmark.

“Is this better?” he mumbled, placing a kiss at the corner of her lip, meandering to her cheek, pressing his mouth beneath her ear, down to her neck—

“No marks,” she insisted, tugging sharply on his ear and guiding his face back up to hers. “The others know I came to find you,” she mumbled, her lips brushing his smile as they spoke. “There are… rules in place.”

“Ja,” he agreed, but didn’t let go of her. His lids were half-closed, his head tucked down with a devilish sort of smirk. He looked the part of an overgrown imp, cleaver sharp features, deep, dark, dementedly attractive eyes. “I know the rules very well.”

“That’s never stopped you from breaking them before,” she chuckled.

“What can I say? I’m a showman. Rules… boundaries, they are meant to be pushed. Playing it safe is for second best.”

“And yet you told me earlier you’ve been second best for quite some time.”

“I would gladly continue my second best streak if it kept me right here.”

She tilted her head and pecked his lips, massaged his mouth, noses bumping and cheeks burning because she finally _understood_. All those little details over years and years of interaction… and now jumping into a distinct alteration laced with familiarity, like a well-rehearsed key change.

Pieter turned his head once more, pulling away from her.

Liesel tried to follow, but a warm hand on her shoulder had her halting in her lean.

“I… did not know how you would react,” Pieter finally said, moving his hand from her shoulder to her face, a finger sliding along her jaw line.

“Was requiting you not a scenario you considered?” Liesel asked.

“I did not plan to do this.”

“That is unsurprising. You rarely plan at all.”

“I just… felt I had to,” he slipped back into the pool and tried tickling her feet, only to be deterred with a wayward splash-kick to the shoulder.

“Why must you go down there and bother me when we were having such a nice time up here?” Liesel shrugged, locking her arms and resting her weight back on her hands. She kicked once more at Pieter.

“To be quite honest Liesel, I would probably end up mauling you,” Pieter insisted, grabbing her ankle forcefully and bending her leg against the side of the wall. He placed a quick kiss to her kneecap and only just missed a powerful kick to the face.

“I am the bär, remember?”

“You would do that at a public pool?” Liesel asked.

“I have done many more absurd things in a public pool than kiss a beautiful woman.”

“Again, that is unsurprising. I seem to recall a water gun war I had to break up between the bass section and the baritones—”

“Leisel, we were _winning_ ,” Pieter whined, approaching her cautiously. Liesel liked the way Pieter looked at her legs… part reverent awe, part downright terror.

She motioned him forward to the ledge and pulled him between her parted legs, hitching her knees at the sides of his abdomen. His hands flew to her waist again, hers behind his neck, and the shift was seamless. It seemed almost practiced. He’d held her for so long as a friend, as a confidant, coworker, dance partner… it was an easy transition to wrap herself around him in… a different capacity.

“What—” she began, then reconsidered her phrasing. “How is… will this change anything?” she asked, intentionally vague, tracing little water patterns along his vertebrae with her fingertips.

“I suppose I’ll have to take up some of your interests. What do you enjoy doing?” Pieter asked cheekily.

“You already know what I enjoy doing, you asshole,” Liesel swatted at the crown of his head.

“You must play along, there’s a pattern to these things,” Pieter insisted.

“Why must I—fine,” Liesel said, toying with the buzzed hair that fluffed at the nape of Pieter’s neck. “I enjoy reading the paper, I enjoy music composition, I enjoy cycling, hot coffee, running—”

“What a coincidence!” Pieter said brightly. “I myself am a runner. Say, I know this is quite unexpected, but would you like to go for a run around the city tomorrow morning?”

“We’re already going for a run around the city tomorrow morning,” Leisel said neutrally. “I set your alarm for you already. We run every morning, Pieter.”

“You’re not doing this right,” Pieter groaned, flopping his head back dramatically.

“What is it that we’re doing?”

“Bantering! Flirting!”

“I only banter with competition. And even then, it’s more insult than repartee.”

“How am I supposed to impress you with my seductive wit—”

“Nonexistent. Your wit is nonexistent, Pieter.”

“—if you do not play along?”

“I suppose you will have to win me over with your other charms.”

“How unfortunate, my best friend tells me my charms are quite limited.”

“She sounds rather insightful,” Liesel said, deciding to play along with Pieter for the moment. “You should tell me about her.”

“Well, she’s really talented,” Pieter began.

“Oh is she?”

“Yes. But she knows she is; it can be so tiresome, her ego trips. She’s the head of an organization as well, so add the ego to the power, and she can be so difficult to deal with.”

Pieter picked Liesel up off the ledge and pulled her close to him in the water, drifting along as one section of lights dimmed in the natatorium. She wrapped her ankles around his back, digging in sharply for the ‘power trip’ comment.

“Then why do you stand by her?”

“Because she’s brilliant,” Pieter said, placing a light kiss to her forehead. “And, some say, gorgeous,” he said, kissing her neck, the slope of her wet shoulder.

“Gorgeous, really?”

“She’s turned a number of women. Gets far too smug about it. Plus she’s got this—air about her. When you do something right, she’ll smirk at you, but it’s really a smile. As if—there are a million rainbow balloons attached to your belt loop, and you can just float away on that smirk. It’s magnetic. I can’t help but be there for her.”

Liesel nudged his head up and kissed him hard, tugged at his hair and groped at his shoulders, biceps, chest… slid her tongue along his lips and withdrew, pulled his bottom lip between her teeth and bit down. Her temperature was skyrocketing despite the cool slush of the pool.

“God, Liesel… you can’t just do that,” Pieter grumbled, shutting his eyes together. “Unless you’d like to incite a rather uncomfortable walk for me back to our room,” she felt his hands pushing to get her hips off of his body.

“Should we leave?” Liesel laughed.

“Well, there’s something I’d like to try, first.”

“In a _public pool,_ Pieter?!”

“Holding your horses with their minds in the gutter,” Pieter said in English. “I have no intention of screwing you in a hotel pool.”

“Then what is it that you think we need to do down here?”

“The lift,” Pieter said seriously, reverently.

“Oh Pieter, we’ve been through this,” Liesel groaned, placing her hands to the sides of his head and giving it a good _shake_. She unhitched her feet from around his waist and placed them on the bottom of the shallow pool. “Not everyone can handle it. And Tomas and Albert need to be able to keep their hands on the microphones.”

“Let the beat boxers have their microphones. I’m not saying every male would have to lift every woman. I know there will be a mismatch on the pairings for the choreography.”

“Thank you,” Liesel huffed, eager not to get into that argument once again. It was so strange, how they could shift from talking shop to something far more intimate and then back again. Symptomatic of nearly a decade spent, working together.

She found it… appealing.

“But what if every female lifted one male? And the remaining two women partnered up?” Pieter asked expectantly. “Those little ring-a-ding Bellas won with the whole ‘girl power’ notion. Why not take their idea and twist it, let the women show not just their power, but their _strength_.”

Liesel shifted suddenly, her head space compartmentalizing of its own accord, back to DSM, back to performance talk. Back to the Kommissar. She was appreciative of the dichotomy.

“Do you believe every woman can lift her male partner?”

“I am the largest male,” Pieter said. “It will—as it often does—rest on your shoulders.”

“When you phrase it like a challenge, you know I must accept.”

“I do.”

“You enjoy toying with me.”

“I do.”

“I think you also enjoy dominant women.”

“Yes, please.”

“God, okay, we will try, Pieter,” Kommissar said, squaring to face him, bending her knees as if preparing for a dead lift. “But I will not waste two weeks worth of practices on stunts and neglect our vocal exercises again. We all know how your trapeze idea worked out in rehearsals last time.”

“You will never let me live that down, will you?” he asked, placing his huge palms over her shoulders.

“No. Now, tight abs,” she said, slapping his flat belly. “Straight back, chin up.”

“I know what I’m supposed to do,” Pieter said stubbornly.

“You’ve never been lifted before. It’s not as easy as it looks.”

“You lie back and be pretty.”

“I’ll show you pretty,” Liesel said, pulling her opposite elbow at a contorted angle behind her head, giving her arm a good stretch.

“Well lifting is hard, too,” Pieter objected.

“Especially with your extra biscuit consumption.”

“Liesel!”

“Pieter!” she copied, placing her palms just below the cradle of his hip bones. Thank goodness for her rather large hands, or this would be a doomed endeavor from the start. “Prep on three?” she said, concentrating on (and then getting rather distracted by) his bare chest.

“Three, ja.”

“One—”

“Two—”

“Three, and—”

There was a bit of splashing, a low grunt, and then a listing Pieter, dumped on his side into the water. She didn’t even get her arms locked underneath him.

“Dammit!” she spat.

“You have to let me push off your shoulders with my arms,” Pieter instructed.

“How many times have you watched that _Dirty Dancing_ film?” Kommissar asked.

“I’m watching it for choreography ideas, _Kommissar_ ,” Pieter teased.

“Not because you have a secret desire to tango on a log suspended above the stage?”

His eyes grew wide like a child’s on Christmas morning. His mouth popped open, but she held up a hand before he could make his case.

“No. The logistics would be hell to work out, as would the release forms every member would have to sign. Now, again. I’m beginning to tire.”

“It’s so early, you granny.”

“It is nearly midnight and we’re running at six. Get over here,” she said, bending low towards his hips.

“I cannot lie, I’ve had this image in my head for a few months now—”

“Pieter!”

“Sorry, yes, lifting, go!” he blustered, pressing his weight off the top of her shoulders. The buoyancy of the water aided in the initial lift, but she did have to lock her elbows for a few seconds, gritting her teeth because damn, Pieter was just so _big_.

“Hold it!” he yelled, and she could feel the muscles in his abdomen, in his obliques, straining to get the words out while he held the position.

“Trying—you—giant!”

She felt herself being tipped over, a loud _Schiebe!_ from Pieter before she hit the water on her back, nearly getting herself decked at the chin from the man no longer above her.

“Haha! I knew you could do it!”

“And you expect us to sing while we complete that hold?” Kommissar asked incredulously.

“We can always try.”

“I will not approach the team until I know we can complete the task.”

“Does this mean we get to practice much more in the pool together?”

“We’ll practice multiple lifts. I’m used to being on top.”

Pieter grinned lecherously and grabbed her by the hips. “Noted,” he said, cheeky little bastard. “Let’s try the dead lift, and the roll down,” he said.

“I’ll slip out of your grip.”

“And hit the water, an easy surface. But it’s not as if I won’t catch you,” Pieter said.

She sunk her nails into his shoulders and smirked her signature smirk. “Noted,” Liesel repeated.

She soon found herself suspended in the air, arms extended, Pieter’s sure hands supporting her from between her shoulder blades to the swell of her rump. She heard a low _thud_ toward the side of the natatorium, and wondered if the poor teen had been sent to kick them out once and for all.

Liesel felt Pieter turn, and a telling finger wriggle between her shoulder blades.

“It is a few of our rival Bellas,” he murmured in German, bringing her down into a showy press above his head.

Liesel extended her legs to their ultimate length, pointing her toes, straining her abs, the muscles in her arms quivering from exertion.

“Shall we play with their heads?” Liesel asked lowly. “I think they’ve noticed us.”

“I do love the mind-boggles,” Pieter answered, then clipped a barking order, more loudly this time. “Dismount on three, ja!”

“Ja!” Liesel shouted, then tucked into a roll over his head as Pieter threw her, then caught her, a lovely little stunt into a cradle catch that the Bellas wouldn’t be able to perform in their wildest dreams, if their sagging jaws were anything to judge by.

“Little bells,” Kommissar sang slowly, swimming easily toward them.

“Ba-dum,” Pieter sang, a deep bass following her sliding form through the water.

“Come for a dip to escape your party celebrity? It is trying, no? The constant assault of the presses.”

“Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum ba-dum ba-dum ba-dum.”

“Do take care. The water is absolutely full of predators,” Kommissar teased.

“What do you want?” the little redheaded one asked. Ah yes, _Chloe_.

Her voice, if at all possible, seemed an octave higher than it normally did, her eyes unfocused and glazed to crossing. Flanking her were the dark-skinned belty-one, with half of her head shaved, expression incredulous; then the large loud one that continually niggled at Pieter; and finally the Tiny Maus, a drink of something brownish shaking in her hand. She was swaying slightly to the side, supported by the darling redhead and sheer force of will.

“Want?” Kommissar asked, languidly propping her elbows on the ledge. “What could we possibly want from you?”

“How ‘bout some tips for winning competitions! Since y’know, we did that!” flabby Abby shouted, gesticulating wildly in her drunkenness. “Das automatons caught a wrench in the gears. So here’s a little prize for you,” she said, miming a crank with her left hand as she slowly extended her right middle finger.

“Come now, is that truly necessary?” Kommissar purred, feeling Pieter draw up close behind her, placing hands to either side of her body along the ledge, both of them a towering presence despite their position in the sunken pool below the Bellas.

Even when the little Americans looked down on them, they seemed afraid.

“What do you think, Tiny Maus?” Kommissar asked, rubbing an absent hand up along Pieter’s neck. “Do you think our performance was not exemplary? That, _we_ … were not exemplary?”

Beca’s mouth flopped open momentarily, brows converging in concentrated effort. Unfortunately, the woman came up short: “I—uh—I…”

“Yes, mauschen? You must speak up. These echoes throw tricks to the ears.”

Kommissar nudged Pieter off and placed both palms flat on the pool ledge, heaving herself from the water. Her feet made slappy sucking sounds as she padded nearer the group of women at the door; she heard the splashes of Pieter rising behind her, practically nipping at her heels. She stopped, feet from them, still looking down, down, down, even without her performance heels. She fisted her hands on her hips and smiled openly, inclining her head toward the tiny kinder.

She felt a strong hand at her waist, then delivered a side nod of acknowledged superiority.

“Your children could rule nations,” Beca stammered, the girl’s eyes growing larger as she took a step toward Kommissar and Pieter.

“With training from us, they would likely invade and overrule America,” Pieter answered snidely. “You exceptionalist mentality makes your country mightily susceptible. Watch the spy films.”

“Beca, we _won_. You’ve got to stop complimenting them!” the red head whined.

“Chloe, are you _looking_ at them?!” Beca stammered.

Kommissar felt Pieter’s hands slip from the concave of her waist to intertwine with her fingers. His chin found the slope of her neck, and she could just imagine the devilish brute, winking like some sex fiend just to get a rise out of the little woman.

“Yes, but I don’t really care what their kids are gonna look like,” ginger-darling huffed.

“Now now, Bellas,” Kommissar said easily, ever the diplomat. She toyed with Pieter’s fingers and pretended not to notice the stares they were drawing in their half-clothed state. “It is not in our nature to cause internal discord.”

“Well, except when we know it will crumble your organization like an overweight teen crumbles graham crackers and cookies,” Pieter added. “Because he is so ravenous, you see. Lazy Susan, don’t you agree?”

“FAT AMY you colossal DEUTSCH DOUCHE!” the blonde woman made a move toward Pieter, but the belty-one held her back.

“Hold ‘up girl. They will murder you and no one will ever find the body.”

“It is true. I know a number of people down by the docks,” Pieter sneered.

“Perhaps we can put this matter to rest,” Kommissar suggested, tugging Pieter’s arms around her from behind, letting his fingers interlock and settle over her naval. “If the mauschen one is so enamored with us, should we not indulge her? To show her we are—what is the phrase—good at the sports?”

“Oh, ja, if she would like,” Pieter agreed, catching on. He rocked Kommissar in his arms and laser-focused his gaze on Beca.

“You will agree, tiny person?” Pieter asked. "It would be much fun times."

“Yes,” Beca nodded emphatically, drink sloshing over the sides of her glass.

“Beca, what are you agreeing to?” Chloe asked, relieving her co-leader of a potential shatter-hazard.

“I don’t know, but the answer is yes. Do you see their faces?!”

“What is the word for the Americans, Pieter?” Kommissar asked lazily.

“The sexual co-mingling in the triplicate?” Pieter asked, extending a long arm and ‘booping’ Beca on the nose.

“It is there,” Kommissar continued. “On the tip of my tongue—”

“I know where you should put your tongue tip,” Beca breathed.

“BECA!”

“See, she is excited, it is all settled!” Pieter clapped his hands happily.

“She still doesn’t know what she just agreed to!” Chloe said.

“Eh, ménage a trois?” Kommissar answered. “I believe that is in the French.”

“Ohmygod, _yes_!” Beca practically catapulted forward.

“Beca, you’re drunker than Bumper that time he crashed his segue in the lake. We’re taking you back to the room,” the belty-one said. “Fat Amy, grab her legs.”

“Wait, what?!” Beca shook her head from side to side, and it took such Herculean effort for Liesel not to burst out into a guffawing fit that she felt Pieter’s arms squeeze her shoulders tighter, his own gut and torso hitching from his tamped-down giggles.

“Guys, I was totally joking, I was just gonna talk to them,” Beca hurriedly replied, backing up to the pool wall as her friends closed in around her. “Seriously, like, a private talk, with their private parts—GODDAMMIT!”

“Beca, this is for your own good. Cynthia Rose?” Chloe said, latching onto a wayward wrist. Cynthia Rose grabbed at Beca’s torso and slung the woman over her shoulder while Fat Amy secured Beca’s flailing ankles.

“What the fuck! Nerds, put me _down_!”

“We’ll put you down once they’ve left the country,” Chloe said. “But for now ladies, shall we?”

The Bella trio marched their disturbed leader out of the pool, the redhead lingering by the doorway with icy eyes.

“You haven’t seen the last of us!” she yelled triumphantly.

“I should hope not,” Kommissar replied smoothly, shooting a fleeting glance up toward Pieter. “We both have a thing for the redheads, too.”

“I—! Uh... huh?” Chloe asked, gobsmacked and angry and adorable all together. “You two are sexy freaks! What…?” she said to herself, staring at the door frame before her, as if something had finally _clicked_ in that obsessive little brain of hers. She bunched her nose up and hollered down the hallway, following after her friends. “Dammit, Beca! Look what you did! Now they’re in my head, too!”

Once the door slammed, Liesel could contain her laughter no longer. She and Pieter doubled-over, aches in their sides, tears forming at their eye creases, hitches in their breathing.

“They are so funny!” Liesel said, crossing to Pieter’s discarded bag. She stooped down and pulled his abandoned workout shirt over her drying head, and handed him his gym bag.

“To be that young, completely driven by blind fury and hormones.”

“As if you are not still,” Liesel countered.

“I never said I wasn’t. I am young at the heart,” Pieter answered, slinging his arm around her shoulders as they exited the pool area. “Why are you wearing that shirt? This whole affair began due to my ‘rancid stench’, as you put it.”

“I believe I’ve accosted enough young people tonight with my body,” Liesel said deftly, pulling open the door to the stairwell. “Besides, I must shower to get the chlorine out. I won’t reek of your funk for the entire night.”

“That’s just rude. I have impeccable hygiene,” Pieter retorted.

“I believe we should shower together, just to make sure you don’t miss any spots,” Liesel offered, fixing a challenging stare up at Pieter.

“Of course,” Pieter agreed in mock seriousness. “We can’t have DSM’s reputation slipping.”

“No,” Liesel said thoughtfully, slipping her arm around Pieter’s waist, placing an errant kiss to his bare bicep. “We certainly cannot have that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I get a distinctly Pieter-crushing-on-Kommissar vibe from their dynamic, if this were to ever become something *crosses fingers for PP3*. Like, she's definitely the dominant one. If, somehow, the class president was bff with the class clown, this is what they'd look like 10 years later... Anyway, would love any feedback if you cared to provide it now that this is finished. Thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all. 
> 
> I know, not Becommissar follow-up. However, I would like to say I had the bare bones/outline of this Kommieter? fic sitting on my hard drive days before We'll Always Have Copenhagen was even a brain child. I've not had a lot of time to respond to everyone's reviews on the previous PP fic, but for those who care to know: I'm still thinking of writing a follow-up to it, but I can make no promises as second summer session is about to start up and I have to do a lot of prep.
> 
> If you're not too lost in your despair, I'd love a bit of feedback on this piece. Technical, critical, getting the voices down. Lemme tell you, Pieter Kramer's voice is a pain in the tukhus to capture on word doc, as is Kommissar's interior monologue, dangit. Any who, spread the word if you're one of the few Kommissar/Pieter BrOTP or OTP followers! I just think they and DSM are the kätzchen's meow.


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